


Effulgence

by invisible_doorknob



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: M/M, ace angel, ace demon, no real plot, romance but no sex, that's MY headcanon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-29 13:16:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19401073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/invisible_doorknob/pseuds/invisible_doorknob
Summary: Everything that lives in time is subject to change.





	Effulgence

**Author's Note:**

> I think I may have read the book once, but I'm not sure. This is based on the miniseries.

When you're a being that existed before the creation of linear time, hours and days don't always mean much. 

Sometimes they don't see each other for days at a stretch. Aziraphale gets lost in a book for so long that it's a good thing he only eats for pleasure; Crowley concentrates on minor mischief or takes himself elsewhere for an especially good plant sale. Time rolls on, and they don't notice. It's one of the ineradicable traits of supernaturality. 

But on the coin's other face, there's no need to part until they're ready. They can start with breakfast at the cafe down the road from the bookshop and go for a walk after it closes at midnight, repeating the cycle for almost a week; the staff is used to them now and just keeps the tea coming until it's time for the wine. They can spend all the time they want in Crowley's flat or Aziraphale's shop, reading bits from the paper or a book out loud for the other to comment; or Aziraphale can squeeze his eyes shut until the Bentley has cleared Oxford Street and Crowley, snickering, drops it to a more reasonable speed for their countryside drives. It might be sunset by the time they make it back...or it might be next month. 

Angels are self-sufficient, demons trust no one; and they need nothing - it's not in their nature. But of course, everything that lives in time is subject to change. 

And so they have chosen, and so they have changed. 

They have gone from the occasionally necessary, half-fascinated, half-disgusted touch kept as short as possible to the equally occasional brush of hands, to one shoulder leaning against another, to the cautious tangling of wings or even of feet (one pair with socks, one without). 

Moreover, they have come to realise that the impulse driving them is...new. It's not the hormonal rush of humanity; it comes from somewhere more metaphysical, somewhere Aziraphale might name as a _heart_ if pressed to it but which Crowley would deny with a sneer. 

They want to be closer, and gradually, they are. 

It's never discussed. But the intervals apart get shorter, and the times together get longer. They don't disappear altogether - even immortals need their space - but the partings are seldom. 

And every so often, they indulge themselves. They set time aside with an effort; it's no light thing to pass into timelessness, as good as it feels to be free of the constraint. But in that time that isn't, that space that is nowhere, they can let their true selves show. 

Black wings overlap white, back to back as they dwell in contentment. Long legs stretched out and a haloed head resting on them, both faces tilted up to the endless light. Sturdy arms wrapped in dark coils, fingers and scales moving in endless slow caresses as they contemplate eternity, or ignore it. 

They have forever. 

They won't waste a minute of it. 

~End~


End file.
